


Threat, Type I

by happinesssdeceit (crescenttwins)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anthropomorphic, Blood and Injury, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Other, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-03 08:02:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13336893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crescenttwins/pseuds/happinesssdeceit
Summary: “I wish for death,” Arimir responds, and is surprised when her companion begins to laugh.“It is easy to find Death,” they murmur, “if you are so talented with bloodshed.”





	Threat, Type I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Measured_Words](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Measured_Words/gifts).



> Happy Valentines' Day, Measured_Words! I hope you like this gift <3

The first time she sees them-- a blur of white in her periphery as she pushes back an orc blade, snarling, Arimir thinks they are a mirage. They are wiped from her mind in the next moments, bloodlust arcing up her spine as she cracks her enemy’s ribs with a savage blow, stepping back to avoid the swing of a warhammer as another charges her. She brings down her blade down to crack it against the orc’s helmet, to stun him, and when he staggers, Arimir slits his throat. The spray of blood is chased by the sound of a retreat horn.

 _No_ , Arimir wants to howl at the backs of the retreating orc army. A human-- a _comrade_ \-- checks her with the corner of his shield as he returns to the base, and she lets the blow brush past her without comment. She kneels, wiping her blade clean on the scrap of a fallen enemy’s loincloth before resheathing it.

“Mourning your brethren, half-blood?” A soft voice questions her, and Arimir slices through the source of the noise.

There is no weight to what her blade slices, even as her eyes see a white cloak sliced in two. No blood is spilled around the edge of her blade, nothing added to the mess already on her armor.

Arimir stares at the thin figure, blood red eyes set into an ageless face, draped in a heavy white cloth. White lips curve into a smile, brushing aside what would have been a deathblow on any mortal, and returns her stare.

The half-orc sheathes her sword, says, disappointed, “Mourning my inability to find a worthy foe.” She remains in a crouch, legs ready to propel her away if needed.

A thin hand emerges from the cloak, brushing against the bruising on her built shoulders with cold fingers. The bones of the figure’s hand are prominent, skin paper thin, and Arimir wonders if she could take off the hand with a bite. “You wish for glory?” The voice comes again.

“I wish for death,” Arimir responds, and is surprised when the figure begins to laugh.

“It is easy to find Death,” the cloaked figure murmurs, “if you are so talented with bloodshed.”

Arimir sighs, standing. “A greater challenge than you might expect, stranger.” A call brings her attention to the base, and she turns her face to yell back.

When she turns to give her words of parting, the figure is gone.

\-----

The land sees half-orcs as abominations, children born of their mother’s suffering. Arimir does not know her mother, has been given neither tales nor images. Her vision of her father is an amalgamation of a hundred orc warriors faced in battle, and it is this vision that her human comrades project onto her. Arimir towers over the human males she fights alongside; carries twice their load when they move camp; stands on the frontline with them.

Her tent is on the border of the camp, and she bites back a snarl of pain as one of the medics-in-training wraps her gut wound with shaky hands. The young man flinches at the sound, his knuckles pushing into the bloody wound, and this time Arimir digs her claws into the mattress. He takes a shaky breath, his eyes focused on the places where bedding is coming out beneath her fingertips, and finishes sloppily. The man bows to her, leaves the tent at a half-run, trailing bandages and the smell of antiseptic, and Arimir would laugh if it wouldn’t reopen her gut wound.

She undoes the messy bandages, holds one end against her skin and begins the slow task as wrapping herself up.

“I can give you death, if you wish,” comes a soft voice from the corner of her tent.

Arimir chokes a laugh, pulls the bandages tightly around the slice in her abdomen. She sneaks a glance at the familiar white cloak, lingering in the corner of her tent. “It is not my interest to die in bed.”

“A shame,” the voice says, and the longing in it makes Arimir’s face goes warm.

Thin hands emerge from the cloak, take the bandages from her. Arimir lets the cloth go easily, holds herself still as they settle themselves around her, covering the wound with deft movements. She is careful not to shift, not to hold the edge of the bandages and loosen them, and she is rewarded a small smile for her trust.

“Your comrades will return?” The cloaked figure asks, settling on the bed beside her.

Arimir considers the darkness outside the tent. “Unlikely.”

“Then rest,” they say. “No one else will take your life today.”

“No one can stop death from visiting,” Arimir says, just to be contrary, but her mind lingers strangely on the other's words.

“Oh,” the figure laughs, “but Death is already here.”

She opens her eyes, stares at the childish grin stretching beneath gleaming red eyes. A pause, and then she closes her eyes. “I thought Death was supposed to wear a black cloak.”

“Black,” Death says to her, humming, “gets boring after an eternity.”

“Black is practical,” Arimir mutters, and turns her face away from the light to sleep.

\-----

“Your human army is growing smaller in number quickly,” Death comments one day, while Arimir is pulling her sword from the torso of a slain dwarf. “It would be best to slay the enemy’s leader to end the battle.”

“Yes,” Arimir agrees, “that is the goal.” She rolls to the side to avoid the downward path of a great axe, kicks the side of the large blade to knock the warrior off balance while she raises her sword to catch the edge of a spear.

Death makes a considering sound as Arimir dispatches her two opponents. When blood is soaking the ground, they offer, “It would be easy enough to bring about that one’s death.”

“Death in battle is not something easy,” Arimir bites out. She stabs her sword through the spine of a crawling dwarf, though whether he is a coward or an opportunist is uncertain. His death cry draws more enemies to her, and in the corner of her eye she can see her comrades starting to retreat.

“...You’re angry,” Death observes, curious. “And also wrong. Death in battle is the _easiest_ thing.” As if to prove a point, that thin-fingered hand waves before them, and the dwarves charging towards her stutter to a stop, clutching at throat and chest before collapsing.

“Do not _dishonor_ our battle,” she snarls, and wipes the sweat from her brow. A respite is kind, in a battle like this, but the warrior in Arimir is howling in outrage at the effortless death of her foes. She spits blood, collected in her mouth after a blow to the face cut her lip, and readjusts her grip on her blade. “Death in battle is a result of your weapon and your will falling to another’s. Do not _taint_ it with cowardice.”

She cuts down twenty more dwarves before the call to retreat sounds, covering her comrades’ backs. And if Death has anything more to say, she does not hear it.

\-----

Arimir does not see Death for many battles after that, despite the blood she sheds. Her scars accumulate, gather on the ridges of her muscle like taunts to the enemy (like taunts to herself: she has survived, she lives, she is _tired_ ). Still, fallen warriors do not rise again, and heavy wounds drag more away to the afterlife.

The next time Arimir sees them, it is her own fault: she is fallen on the battleground, elven arrows piercing her body armor like spines. She thinks, _yes, finally_ , a glorious death, one that will prove her use in spite of her mixed blood, that will prove her loyalty to humanity.

Fury follows the discovery that her arrow wounds are not fatal; the archers have missed her jugular and her vital organs, and Arimir drags herself from the battlefield angrily once the fighting has stopped. Her mobility is a gift: the archers have wounded many, and the medics work furiously, bouncing from patient to patient without even the time to swallow water.

Arimir returns to her tent to sleep off the burning in her chest, that tells her to hunt the retreating elves to their camp and slit their throats, to crush their bones and bathe in their blood until one of them finally puts an end to her.

Her rest is not peaceful-- she feels burning pain all over her, and when she wakes the smell of pus and blood makes her realize: infection. Arimir cleans them the best she can, but the wounds remain an angry red around the edges, foul-smelling.

She lays there, uncertain of how much time passes, and the noise outside her tent ebbs and flows but she bites back a plea for help.

"Will you perish, half-blood?" a voice says, close to her ear, and she turns to meet bright red eyes. They are eerie things, the color of the blood that oozes from a fresh wound.

"It seems possible," Arimir admits, but does not break the gaze.

"You said," Death says, accusing, "that you were not interested in dying in bed." They circle around her, cloak's hem dragging through her wound. Those bony fingers skim across her face, and a pale mouth is pulled into a frown. "You _said_ , half-blood."

"I may not have a choice," Arimir murmurs. It seems foolish, at this stage, but she offers, "And it is not _half-blood_. My name is Arimir."

"What do _names_ matter," they reply, now tugging at the coiled braids of her hair. "When you are _leaving_."

It stings, to have her name dismissed so easily by someone she has grown to see as a companion, but Arimir is used to such treatment.

"Surely there will be other warriors for you to hunt," Arimir says. "Ones far more interesting than a tired half-orc."

"Other heroes are _boring_ ," Death says. "They never see me unless they wish to rise again, and even then they battle me with weapon and word. They seek to defeat death, not linger with it." They kneel at Arimir's bedside. "Have you grown tired, half-blood? Do you wish to perish here?"

"If I could choose a place of death," Arimir responds, "it would always be the battlefield."

Death smiles, pale and terrifying, and presses a kiss to Arimir's forehead.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I really appreciate and am motivated by comments if you would like to leave one. At the same time, replying gives me a lot of stress-- so if you don't receive a reply, please know that I treasure your words very much. <3


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